


The Smile Off Your Face

by Polomonkey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Coercion, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds an old Watson family album while snooping through John’s things and is able to deduce through the photographs that John’s father sexually abused him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Explicit Polaroids

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill in progress for a kink meme prompt. Don't know how explicit it will be but please proceed carefully if you fear you might be triggered. Thank you very much for reading.

Boredom drives him into John’s room. There’s been no cases for over a week and Sherlock’s resorted to inventing a whole host of puzzles and experiments to keep himself occupied.

First, there was the ‘How many times can I prank call Anderson before he realises it’s me?’ Seventeen, as it turned out, and all worth it to hear Anderson spluttering about mutual respect and entitlement with all the threat of an incensed vicar. Then there was the ‘Dismantle the toaster to see how it worked’. John did not like that one and offered no sympathy for the mild electric shock Sherlock sustained. And now there was the ‘Guess what’s John’s got hidden under his bed’.

As puzzles go, Sherlock has to admit it’s pretty weak, but after upturning John’s mattress and finding precisely three pens, under fifty pence in loose change, an AA battery, all exactly as he’d predicted, he cheers up slightly.

There’s something else under there too though. Sherlock slides it out and finds it’s a leather-bound photo album. He flips open the cover and finds an inscription inside reading: ‘Dear John, Happy 30th Birthday! Hope this album brings back a few happy memories for you, lots of love, Mum and Dad xxx’. Sherlock briefly wonders why John would shove a family photo album under his bed, but concludes it most likely fell under there in the confusion of John moving in.

For want of anything better to do, Sherlock seats himself cross legged on the floor and begins to flick through the pages absently.

It’s standard family photo album fare. John as a baby, cradled in his mother’s arms. Toddler John on a merry go round. John at about ten, standing next to a small girl (presumably Harry) at the seaside.

Sherlock isn’t sure why he keeps looking really, he’s always found family photos to be rather sentimental items – often invaluable in cases, but dull otherwise. But seeing as he’s never met John’s family, the album holds a certain fascination. He knows John’s mother (Helen, was it? Helena?) died several years ago, and that his father (James, he’s pretty sure) lives in Southampton. He presumes John goes to visit him there, although come to think of it, he hadn’t yet in the time they’d lived together.

He didn’t know much else. To be perfectly honest, he’d never been that interested. But the photos hold their own appeal.

He stops on a picture of a teenage John and his father beside a Christmas tree, amused to see John’s bright red snowflake pullover, a precursor of the many terrible jumpers to come.

He goes to turn the page and then stops. Something about the picture is… off. Just slightly. He peers again and notes how James Watson leans into his son, how tightly his fingers grip John’s shoulder. And John’s expression… the awkward rictus grin of a fourteen year old forced to smile for the camera, perhaps. But there is a strange look in his eyes. Almost like… desperation.

Sherlock shakes his head. His recent boredom must have sent his brain into overdrive. He’s started to look for clues in everything. He flicks on, hoping to find another picture to make him smile.

John’s school photo, John’s mother and Harry making biscuits, John holding up a fishing rod, John onstage in a nativity play, Harry’s birthday party… And more of John and his father, all tinged with that slight same feeling of… of wrongness, that Sherlock can’t seem to shake off.

Then he stops again, on a photo of John in his bedroom at about sixteen. It’s night-time and he’s caught off guard, wearing only pyjama bottoms, his face half turning towards the camera. He looks thinner than in the photos before, but not like a teenager shedding puppy fat. He looks like he’s lost weight too fast, cheekbones hollowed out, collar bone protruding.

And there are hand shaped bruise on each side of his hips.

 

When deducing, Sherlock makes a point of collecting all the possible facts together. He knows full well that a few awkward teenage photos and a hand shaped bruise do not evidence make. Just because the bruises are the exact right position and size to suggest an larger male assailant holding a person down from behind and forcibly…

_Stop it._

Sherlock shakes his head rapidly. He’s being ridiculous. Not to mention sloppy and presumptive. He’s letting his imagination overpower his analytical sense. The best thing to do would be to put the photo album away and go and devote some time to a useful experiment.

But he doesn’t. He stares down at the photo again, at sixteen year old John with his half hidden face and one arm raised, as though in defence. Then he looks behind John and something catches his eye.

A pile of clothes on the floor. Removed in a hurry clearly, shirt at the bottom, then trousers, then underwear on top. And further back in on the carpet, two balled up socks and an upturned pair of shoes.

Not John’s clothes. Not his socks, not his shoes, not his underwear…

And like a terrible magic eye puzzle, he sees it. The half opened wardrobe door at the back of the room. You’d have to squint to notice, you’d have to really be looking, but Sherlock is, that’s all he’s doing, and so he can make out the tiny flesh coloured blur at the bottom of the wardrobe door.

A foot. Belonging to a man. A naked man who is hiding in John’s wardrobe.

Sherlock’s mind is going too fast now, like it does at a crime scene when everything begins to slot into place… but no, not like that at all, because at a crime scene he feels wired and excited as he puts it all together, and now he feels sick and giddy, like he’s in a car that’s driving too fast, and it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, because it’s John and it makes no sense and he want his mind to stop, just stop, stop it…

It could be any man. It could be John’s boyfriend, or his classmate. It could be a completely consensual sexual encounter.

But it’s not. _It’s not, it’s not, it’s not._

He closes his eyes, hoping his mind will slow down, will stop attempting to fill in every second of John’s life up to this point with terrible images, with things he doesn’t want to think about…

Then the door clicks and he opens his eyes, and John is standing in front of him.


	2. La Dispute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have embarked on the somewhat foolhardy task of naming each chapter after a play. We'll see how long this lasts...

Sherlock freezes, looking up at his friend’s face. And though he hates himself, he can’t help noting the expressions that flicker across John’s face: annoyance at seeing Sherlock, shock upon noticing the album, and a flash of panic thereafter. Then John’s face goes blank, a convincing display of calm to anyone but Sherlock. He even manages to regain a facsimile of his original exasperation.

“Why are you in my room?”

He turns from Sherlock as he speaks, to place his bag on the floor. His voice is steady, but Sherlock can see the slight shake in his fingers.

“I was looking at some photos.” Sherlock says quietly, because his mind is still racing.

“Yeah, I can see that. Any reason you felt the need to go through my stuff?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock mumbles. He’s only half listening, his eyes tracing the contours of John’s face, his body, the way he holds himself.

_Could I have missed this? Could I have missed the fact that…_

“Experiment to see how far you can push your flatmate until he’s compelled to strangle you?”

John’s calming down, Sherlock can see; he thinks Sherlock’s just being his usual inconsiderate self, poking round his room out of boredom.

He thinks Sherlock could never look hard enough at those pictures to see the truth.

“Something like that,” Sherlock says and he stands. The album is still open in his hand, still on the bedroom photo. His eyes bore into it.

_Not enough evidence. Unless…_

Impulsively, he shoves the open album into John’s hand: “Here.”

John looks down automatically to see which photo Sherlock stopped on and… he flinches.

_Now I know._

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock doesn’t actually lack any conception of social norms. He finds some conventions genuinely confusing, true, but most he understands. He just thinks they’re predominantly useless.

Still, he knows the socially acceptable path here is to make his excuses, and leave. Attempt to bring the subject up later, on neutral ground, try to create a safe space for John to talk. Maybe even consult a professional for advice on how to broach the subject with his friend.

Sherlock considers all of this.

Then he looks John in the eye.

“Your father sexually abused you,” he says.

 

There is a brief pause.

Then John laughs, a short sharp bark.

“What?” he says. “Is that your idea of a joke? Or is this just some other weird experiment?”

“It’s not an experiment,” Sherlock says softly.

“Right, well, whatever it is, it’s kind of sick, mate.”

John’s voice hasn’t wavered but his hand is gripping the album so tight his knuckles are turning white.

“I know it’s sick,” Sherlock says, and instantly regrets it.

“Sherlock, whatever game you’re playing, you should stop.” John’s voice is getting louder. “Because it’s fucked up.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock says because he can’t think of anything else to say, and because he is, sorry down to his very bones, sorry that men like James Watson exist, sorry that he wasn’t there to protect John, sorry to bring it up now, sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Why are you sorry?” John is almost shouting. “It’s not… it’s not true- what you said, it’s not true…”

“I looked at the photos. Your father… he- he stood too close, he made you uncomfortable… And I… you change in these pictures, you go from being happy, being healthy - to being…”

Sherlock can’t articulate himself properly, he’s done this all wrong, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how to stop now.

He leans forward to tap the photo in John’s hand.

“He was there, wasn’t he? When this photo was taken? He was in your room…”

He trails off.

All the colour has drained out of John’s face. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

There is a long silence.

“I’m not sure what you think you know, Sherlock,” John says eventually. “But you are wrong.”

“John-”

“You. Are. Wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” Sherlock says quietly.

John makes a sudden move and Sherlock thinks he might hit him. But he just grabs Sherlock by the arm, and propels him towards the door.

“This conversation is over,” John says.

Sherlock is frightened suddenly, because he’s done this so badly, and it might be his only chance, and John looks so…

“Please,” he gets out, but John shuts the door in his face.

Sherlock slumps to the landing floor and tries to consider his next move.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he’s sure at one point he can hear a muffled sobbing through the door.


	3. Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing explicit here, but as always, upsetting themes.

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night. He spends most of the night curled up on the living room couch, thinking.

He starts with the facts. The NSPCC website leads him to a survey suggesting nearly a quarter of all young British adults were sexually abused as children. He finds another survey suggesting that perhaps one in ten men were victims in childhood. He reads a whole host of articles on the difficulty of gaining accurate statistics on male abuse, due to societal stigma.

He knew most of that already. He’s worked child abuse cases before, seen pre-teens raped and murdered by those closest to them. He knows all the facts on an intellectual level, but this is different. Sherlock has often previously dismissed victim testimony as compromised and inconsistent, but he finds himself devouring blogs and journals that document personal abuse stories; as well article on survival and recovery and help. He peruses counsellors, checks references, writes down names.

Then he lies back and formulates a plan for the following morning.

John will be angry at him. He might even refuse to speak to him. But Sherlock intends to break through his defences, to convince John to seek help. He’s going to do it the right way, this time.

As dawn breaks and light floods the flat, Sherlock runs through arguments in his head, second guessing John’s objections, countering them at every turn.

When he hears the door to John’s room open, Sherlock sits up. He is as prepared as he can be.

What he doesn’t expect is John to walk in smiling.

“I thought I could hear someone moving around. Up early, aren’t you?”

John’s tone is cheery.

“I- I didn’t go to bed,” Sherlock says slowly.

“Honestly, what are you like?” John says, tutting in mock exasperation. “Tea?”

He moves towards the kettle.

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to collect himself.

Stick to the plan.

“John, I think we should talk about last night,” he says, steeling himself for resistance.

“Yeah, I think we should.” John agrees, turning towards him.

Sherlock is so surprised, he forgets what he wanted to say next. But John is ploughing on.

“I know you’ve been bored recently, with the lack of cases and that, so I do understand what happened. And I’m sorry I reacted like I did.”

John comes to sit in the armchair next to Sherlock.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Sherlock says carefully.

“You ever heard the expression: ‘To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail’?” John says.

Sherlock nods.

“But I don’t see what-”

John gently interrupts him.

“What I mean is... sometimes, when you’re in detective mode, you become this, like, one-man deduction machine. And you sort of can’t turn it off.”

Comprehension dawns on Sherlock.

“So you think I was looking for something that wasn’t there in your family album?” Sherlock says flatly.

“I think that, with everything you’ve seen in your line of work, it’s perfectly natural to be occasionally get a bit… over-zealous.”

John smiles.

He looks just right, sat there in front of Sherlock; the perfect mixture of concern and reassurance. The caring friend, patiently guiding his inept flatmate through another quagmire of social etiquette.

Sherlock could almost believe it.

_Almost._

“I was wrong last night,” Sherlock says.

John nods his head encouragingly.

“But not in the things I said. Only in the way I said them.”

John’s smile slips.

“I am aware that my bringing it up in such a way was painful for you, and I apologise. I also understand if you have no desire to discuss it with me any further.”

He holds out the piece of paper.

“But I think you might benefit from discussing it with someone. I did some research, and found a counsellor who specialises in-”

“Stop.”

John’s voice is low.

Sherlock is aware he may have said too much at once. He lays the paper down on the couch.

“The counsellor is only a suggestion, of course. It’s up to you. I will support you in whichever way you choose to proceed.”

John takes a deep breath.

“Sherlock. I don’t know how else to say it. You’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t need a counsellor, or support, or further discussion because it never happened.”

"I know it did." Sherlock says, because what else can he say? This has all gone so horribly wrong, and he's more and more out of his depth with every word John says.

"Sherlock. Aren't you always the one who bangs on about never letting the theory overpower the evidence? You're hanging all this on some twenty year old photos, for God's sake."

John tries to laugh.

“Even if I hadn’t known from the album, I knew the moment I asked you.” Sherlock says softly.

John's leg twitches slightly, but he meets Sherlock's gaze steadily.

“I’m not having this discussion again. I’m off to work.” John says briskly “You should get out the house, go do something. Stop your enormous brain from sending you mad."

John stands up, ready to leave, and Sherlock knows if that happens, he’s lost him.

“I failed,” he says simply.

“What?” John says, stopping.

“When I first met you, I took satisfaction in that fact that it only took me ten seconds to notice everything of importance about you. The military background, the limp, Harry’s phone. I was so used to reading people like a book, that even when you moved in with me, even when you became a partner in my business, I saw no reason to re-evaluate my initial impression.”

Words are tumbling out of Sherlock’s mouth, haphazard and unvarnished.

“Then last night, I saw those photos. And when you came in, I looked at you again. Properly. And all the things I didn’t know about you; like how you were raised and why you don’t talk to Harry and why you’ve barely mentioned your father once in all the time you’ve been living here, let alone gone to see him... all those things I didn’t care about, last night they fell into place.

And I say I failed because I pride myself on being someone who misses nothing. But I missed so much when I looked at you, and I didn’t know until now.

I failed you.”

John has gone very still.

Sherlock stands, and very slowly reaches out his hand. But just as it touches John’s arm, his friend jumps back.

“I… I… I… I can’t.”

John sounds like he’s pleading.

He opens his mouth again, and closes it.

Then he turns on his heel, and walks out of the flat.

Sherlock stands there for a few seconds, hand still outstretched. Clutching at air.


	4. The Price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The devil shows his face...

Sherlock doesn’t go out that day. He paces round the flat, waiting for John to get home.

He doesn’t even pretend to have a plan this time… perhaps something will occur to him when he sees John’s face, perhaps he’ll suddenly know just what to do, perhaps, perhaps…

But when John gets home, he goes straight to his room. And doesn’t re-emerge. And when he comes down for breakfast the next morning, he’s ignoring Sherlock.

Well, no. Not quite. He’ll acknowledge Sherlock’s presence, he’ll make small talk, but every time Sherlock tries to re-open their discussion, he refuses to engage.

After six days, Sherlock stops trying.

John remains wary, but Sherlock notes him thawing day by day, talking a little more, then a little more, until an uneasy peace exists between them. One month later and they’re joking and bickering again, just like before.

Except not.

John has set down new perimeters in their relationship. He’s made it clear that any incursion into the territory of his father will be considered a hostile act, and Sherlock receives the message loud and clear.

That doesn’t mean he gives up, of course.

He thinks and he researches and he plans and he waits.

He will not fail John again.

 

But then Harry steps in, and everything goes to hell.

_The idiot._

Sherlock knows that’s not fair, not really. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. She thought she was doing a good thing.

But blaming her makes him feel better. He wants someone else close to John to have screwed up. To have failed to notice, to have let him down.

He doesn’t want to be the only one.

What Harry does is this: she organises a surprise birthday party. For John. To which she invites his father.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

She emails Sherlock to inform him the week before. They’ve still yet to meet face to face, John never brings her to the flat. Sherlock always assumed he was ashamed of his alcoholic sister, but now he wonders if John was scared of what Sherlock might deduce from Harry about their childhood.

He reads the email in a hurry, and replies quickly. Yes he’ll be there, yes she can host it at Baker Street, yes he’ll invite John’s “police buddies” as she puts it.

Sherlock’s so distracted, so consumed with thoughts of making things right with John that he doesn’t pay enough attention. Doesn’t stop to consider who else Harry might be bringing along.

_I’m the idiot._

The morning of John’s birthday, Sherlock makes him a cup of tea, and gives him a card.

John seems touched.

Sherlock writes ‘Happy Socially Sanctioned Celebration of an Event You Had No Control Over,’ inside it and is pleased to see John chuckles.

“Thanks mate.”

It’s the first genuine smile he’s seen from John in over a month.

Perhaps tonight, when he comes home from work, they can get a takeaway and maybe… maybe Sherlock can give it another try…

But then he remembers.

The stupid party.

Sherlock sighs and resigns himself.

“Doing anything after work?” he says casually.

“No, actually,” John frowns. “I did invite Mike and Bill out for a pint but they were both busy. Even Lestrade said he had plans.”

“Come back here and I’ll order in dinner.” Sherlock says.

“You, order in dinner? Next thing you’ll be doing the washing up.”

“Stick to medicine John, I don’t think comedy’s your thing,” Sherlock says, getting up. “See you at six, then?”

The talk will have to wait.

 

Harry is not how Sherlock expected.

He thought she’d be blonde, and she’s dark, he thought she’d be short, and she’s tall, and he thought she’d look like John, and she doesn’t.

She is at least sober when she arrives at five to ‘help set up’ (although damned if Sherlock’s going to allow her to cover his flat in confetti and paper chains).

But she has the face of a drinker; puffy cheeks and bloodshot eyes, as well as a slight tremor in her hands.

Still, she’s less abrasive than he expected her to be from the stories John tells, politely asking about Sherlock’s work as she carefully arranges nibbles in bowls.

She’s on her best behaviour, he realises. She wants John to have a good time.

Sherlock can’t help but warm to her slightly.

The guests begin filtering in from half past; Mike and Bill are chatting in the corner with a few of John’s army friends, there’s a colleague or two from John’s surgery, and Lestrade arrives straight from work, clutching a bottle of Cava.

“Knocked off early,” he tells Sherlock. “Left Dimmock in charge.”

“I expect to hear word that Scotland Yard’s burnt down within the hour,” Sherlock says automatically, but there’s no real venom behind it.

Lestrade looks at him.

“You alright, Sherlock?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, surprised.

Lestrade shifts awkwardly.

“It’s just that… I dunno, you seem different recently. A bit… subdued.”

Sherlock shrugs, would-be nonchalant.

“Not enough interesting cases,” he lies.

“Right. I thought maybe… I mean, John seems a bit-“

“Did you know that you’re no longer allowed to refer to Cava as champagne since Spain joined the EU in 1986?” Sherlock interrupts quickly. “Because the Champagne region has ‘Protected Geographical Status’ under EU law.”

“Did you know that you are a fountain of useless bloody knowledge?” Lestrade says, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.

 

John arrives just after six and Sherlock is forced to participate in the tedious ‘Surprise!’ bit as he walks in. But he’s gratified to see that John looks genuinely happy, hugging Harry and clapping Sherlock on the back.

“And here I thought it was gonna be an evening of cold takeaway and Eastenders,” he says, grinning.

“Yes well, it was all Harry’s idea,” Sherlock finds himself saying, despite not usually being in the habit of sharing credit.

But there’s something about the way John’s smiling at Harry as she burbles on about secret keeping (while sipping on an orange juice, Sherlock notes approvingly) that makes Sherlock feel unexpectedly emotional.

John needs at least one healthy family relationship.

Then the door opens and all Sherlock’s goodwill towards Harry flies out of the window.

He knows, he just knows on some primal instinctive level, even before he properly sees the man’s face; he knows it’s James Watson.

He barely hears Harry’s excited cry of “Dad!” He’s looking straight at John, whose whole body has frozen, the ghost of a smile dying on his face.

It’s that image again, over twenty years later, the little boy in front of the Christmas tree with the rictus grin and the desperation in his eyes.

And Sherlock doesn’t know what to do.


	5. The Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore the fact that John's dad is called James. He is definitely not Moriarty, I'm just an idiot.

James Watson doesn’t look like a monster.

He’s a neat, well groomed man, tall like Harry, with salt and pepper hair and lightly tanned skin. His posture suggested ex-military, but his line of work now seems to be outdoors based, possibly in grounds keeping or some manual-

_Stop deducing. It doesn’t matter._

What matters is the embrace James Watson is currently wrapping his son in, an embrace that seems endless to Sherlock.

It’d take a sharp eye to perceive that John was anything other than pleased as he hugged his father, but a sharp eye is what Sherlock has – sharp enough to note the tremor in John’s hand, the tightness in his jaw, the vein pulsing at his forehead.

“Happy birthday, son!” James says jovially as he releases John. “Good to finally get an invite to the new digs.”

Sherlock takes this as his cue, mainly because he can’t stand in silence anymore.

“I’m Sherlock,” he says, striding forward so that he stands slightly between John and James. “The flatmate.”

If James seems slightly startled by the somewhat brusque announcement, he recovers well.

“Pleased to meet you Sherlock,” he says, proffering his hand. Sherlock grips it, taking the opportunity to study the man up close, to glean what information he can about James’ strengths, weaknesses, anything he can use…

_Use to do what?_

He isn’t on a case, and James Watson isn’t a criminal mastermind. He is John’s father and John’s abuser and those two facts seem to render Sherlock utterly powerless.

He knows one thing though.

He has to get John away from this man.

“I just have to borrow John for a minute, bit of a birthday issue,” he says, not bothering to invent a decent lie. Without waiting for a response, he grabs John’s arm and propels him into the (thankfully) empty kitchen.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock says, somewhat urgently, and when John turns to face him, eyes hooded and face pale, Sherlock is sure John will finally talk to him.

But then the mask comes down.

“I’m fine, mate. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my birthday!”

The forced heartiness was almost too much to bear.

“John-"

“So what’s this birthday issue, then?”

“The issue is,” Sherlock hisses, “that your father is here.”

John’s eyes narrow.

“Sherlock, if you start all that again, I swear to God I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” Sherlock challenges. “He’s here, John! The time for denial has passed!”

“Denial?”

John’s face is like stone.

“I didn’t mean-“

“I can’t do this now.” John says flatly, and he brushes past Sherlock, who watches with sick trepidation as John makes his way back to his father.

He sees James place his hand on John’s arm, and he has to turn away.

The rest of the party passes in a blur.

Sherlock skulks miserably round the edges; watches John make the rounds - ever the consummate soldier, back straight and head high, betraying no inkling of the stress he’s under.

Is it his imagination, or do James’ eyes follow John around just as his own do?

Several times, Sherlock considers calling a halt to the party, sending everyone home, letting John retreat.

Several times he also considers knocking James Watson to the ground with all the force he can muster.

He does neither.

Eventually the numbers dwindle as the night wears on, and soon even Harry and James are saying their goodbyes.

“Well, thanks for coming Dad,” John says, as James hugs him again.

Is Sherlock seeing things, or does James’ hand linger on John’s waist?

“Actually got a bit of an extra present for you,” James says, and Harry grins excitedly.

“Dad’s gonna stay a couple of weeks at mine so he can spend some time with us,” she says.

John’s flinch is almost imperceptible.

“That’s great news, Dad.” John says measuredly.

“You should take a few days off, John,” Harry urges. “We can do all the touristy stuff with Dad.”

John half-smiles.

“Yeah, I’ll see if I can.”

There’s a slight pause.

Sherlock’s fingernails are digging so hard into his palms; he thinks he can feel blood.

“Well, see you soon, then,” James finally says, and gives one final squeeze to John’s shoulder.

Then they’re gone.

Instantly, John seems smaller somehow. His shoulders sag as he stands at the door for a second, breathing.

“I think I’ll clean up tomorrow, if that’s okay, mate,” he says, not looking at Sherlock. “Bit tired. Think I’ll just…”

“Right,” Sherlock says quietly.

He had plans to try and confront John again, but suddenly has no appetite to force any questions on the hunched figure before him.

John pauses at the foot of the stairs.

“Thanks for the party,” he says softly, and Sherlock wants to weep.


	6. The Low Road

The next few days are hell.

John continues to cut off any conversation remotely connected with his father, and Sherlock is at a loss. He is relieved that John doesn’t take any time off work, but he can barely conceal his anxiety when John goes out to meet his father of an evening. Thank God for Harry, unknowing buffer that she is. Still, Sherlock waits up for John every night, pretending to work or read, making sure he gets a good look at John’s face when he comes in.

He’s reasonably confident that nothing untoward has happened so far, other than the obvious nightmare of his friend’s abuser suddenly insinuating himself into his life.

Nearly a week after John’s birthday, there’s a knock at the door.

“Dad?” John says. “I thought we were meeting at Harry’s?”

“She’s come down with the flu,” James says regretfully. “She’s stuck in bed, feeling rotten. I offered to stay in with her but she told me to come and see you, so…”

He shrugs, and takes a step towards John.

“Thought we could go out and get some dinner.”

James fixes his eyes on his son.

“Just you and me.”

There is a short pause, a tiny space between the point James stops speaking and John opens his mouth to inevitably agree.

Sherlock dives in.

“Why not have it here?”

James looks wrong-footed.

“I don’t want to put you out-” he begins, but Sherlock is already barrelling on.

“It’s no trouble. We can order in, have a chat. I’d be fascinated to hear some of your stories.”

Sherlock doesn’t dare look at John – John who knows that Sherlock has about as much interest in socialising as a goldfish has in jet skiing. John who’s probably fully aware of what Sherlock’s doing.

James is frowning slightly.

“I was actually thinking-”

But Sherlock cut him off again, merciless in pursuit of victory.

“It’d be great to get to know my friend’s father,” he says sincerely, the very picture of the perfect flatmate.

James’ eyes narrow, as though he can tell Sherlock’s laying it on thick; but how can he prove it?

Sherlock is sure he sees a flash of rage in the man’s eyes, then it’s gone.

“Sounds great,” James says.

Sherlock bustles into the kitchen to fetch the takeaway menus. He allows himself one quick glance at his friend, but John’s expression is unreadable.

 

It’s a tense evening. Once Sherlock is sure James will stay, Sherlock drops any pretence at civility. He hates James and he’s damned if he’s going to make small talk with him. If John won’t let him in, the least Sherlock can do is stop him being alone with this man, this monster, until he leaves London.

When Sherlock clams up, John and James are free to make conversation; although free is not how Sherlock would describe it. John is markedly different around his father. He tends to speak when spoken to, doesn’t make jokes or venture opinions, doesn’t ask questions or change topics. He behaves, Sherlock notes queasily, like someone trying their very best not to be noticed. The implications of this technique as a learned behaviour from childhood are almost too much to bear. Sherlock listens as James asks about John’s life, resenting every smile he gives his son, every easy laugh, every casual touch on the arm.

You don’t deserve any of this, Sherlock thinks, and is relieved when James finally looks at his watch and decrees it time to leave.

As John sees his father to the door, Sherlock fiddles with his chopsticks, contemplating his next move. Harry said a couple of weeks and James had already been here six days. If he can just stick close to John for another week…

He tries to assess his caseload, see what can be moved around, so that he can be available in the evenings – although with Harry there, surely John will be safe? Sherlock is fairly confident Harry knows nothing about any of this. Her interactions with her father and John suggest nothing but ease, surely if she had any inkling…

But now she’s ill. Could be bedbound for days. No buffer…

He briefly wonders if maybe he should talk to her, get her to help John; then quickly dismisses the idea. She would be distressed and likely of little help anyway, and John would never forgive him.

Sherlock is so wrapped up in his thoughts it takes him a good three minutes to realise he has not yet heard the door shut.

He is on his feet in an instant, rushing forward to see…

John and James in the doorway.

James is gripping his son by the shoulders, leaning in towards him, talking intently. John’s face is turned down but he is not resisting his father’s grip, simply standing like a ragdoll as his father whispers to him.

Sherlock coughs to make his presence known and James instantly releases his son.

“Do we have any Earl Grey left, John?” Sherlock says loudly, staring at James, who is slightly flushed.

John looks shell-shocked when he turns to face Sherlock but he nods, and James half-laughs.

“I’ll be off then. See you tomorrow, son.”

John closes the door quietly behind his father, and stands there for a moment.

Then his legs buckle.


	7. The Pitchfork Disney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter contains some explicit mentions of sexual abuse so please be warned.

Sherlock’s running forward even as John crumples to the floor, and he manages to prevent him from hitting his head on the door frame.

“I don’t feel well,” John mumbles, and he sounds disorientated, oddly childlike.

“What did he say to you?” Sherlock asks, cold dread pooling in his stomach.

“Sherlock, I don’t feel-”

John’s eyelids flutter.

“Come on,” Sherlock says and half drags, half carries John to the sofa and forces a large glass of water on him. His friend is eerily pliant as Sherlock makes him lie down.

John now looks slightly less pale, but his eyes are still unfocussed.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Sherlock says uselessly, and John looks up.

“I want… I want…”

Sherlock waits. He wants to reach out his hand to rub John’s, but he isn’t sure he should touch him right now.

“Is my dad here?” John suddenly asks, in a strange high voice.

Sherlock grits his teeth.

“No, he’s gone,” he says, trying to keep his tone steady.

“My dad is…” John says. “My dad…” He is almost slurring his words.

“What about your dad?” Sherlock says gently.

“Can’t tell,” John says, blinking rapidly. “Not allowed.”

“You can tell me,” Sherlock says, trying to smile.

“Sherlock,” John says, and his eyes seem to properly focus for the first time.

“I’m here,” Sherlock says softly.

“Don’t let him… wants to take me home… wants to…”

“Wants to what?” Sherlock says, more sharply than he realises because John flinches.

“What should I not let him do?” Sherlock tries to be milder, but it’s too late, John seems to have slipped away from lucidity again.

“Going to sleep,” he mumbles, eyes already closing and Sherlock has to fight to urge to shake him, make him wake up and tell him everything, right now.

Instead he pulls the throw from the armchair and tucks it around his sleeping friend.

 

Sherlock doesn’t even consider going to bed. He settles himself in the armchair, thinking.

Nothing could have prepared him for the John he saw, a John so obviously traumatised and vulnerable. It shook Sherlock to the core. Yet again he wondered if he was way out of his depth, if he should be seeking professional help for his friend. Or call the police on James? Yet with no evidence, and with John unlikely to back him up… Who else could help? Thoughts circle round his head, over and over, no solutions only problems, till Sherlock is dizzy with it all.

When John finally stirs, at around seven am, Sherlock slips into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. When he returns, John is sitting.

“Let’s talk about last night,” Sherlock says without preamble.

The time for tiptoeing around was over.

“Yeah, weird wasn’t it?” John says slowly. “I guess I got sick, maybe something in the food-”

“You weren’t sick,” Sherlock says bluntly. “You had some kind of brief dissociative fugue brought on by past trauma.”

“Sherlock,” John starts.

“Please don’t deny it, John. Last night only confirmed what I already knew about your father, and I know you don’t want to talk, but I fear the consequences if you don’t.”

“How many times do I have to tell you-”

“Enough,” Sherlock says. “Neither of us are moving from this room until you tell me everything.”

Later, he’ll realise what a mistake it was to lay down an ultimatum like that, to trap and force John as he’d been trapped and forced by James before.

But hindsight is twenty/twenty. Right now, Sherlock thinks he’s doing the right thing.

He actually feels relieved when he watches John deflate like a balloon, the fight simply leaving him.

And if John looks strangely calm when he raises his head to look at Sherlock, the detective thinks little of it.

_Twenty/twenty._

“Alright. You win, Sherlock. What do you want to know?”

“When did it start?” he says

John’s mouth works for a moment.

“When I was thirteen,” he says finally.

Something clenches inside of Sherlock.

“Until?” he says.

“Until I moved out aged seventeen,” John says.

John had mentioned once he lived with a school friend during his A-Levels. Sherlock hadn’t been interested.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Did Harry or your mother know?”

“No,” John says instantly. “It was our secret.”

Sherlock feels bile rise in his throat.

“And you never told anyone?” Sherlock says.

“No. Tried to hint to my rugby coach once but he said all boys my age had a difficult relationship with their dads.”

There is no trace of bitterness in John’s voice. His tone is horribly expressionless.

“What did he- I mean, did he-”

“What are you trying to ask, Sherlock?”

John’s face is blank.

Sherlock doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask. He just wants to say something to crack the mask, to bring John back from the brink. He had imagined the talk going differently somehow – had seen John opening up, unburdening himself, achieving some kind of catharsis.

The Disney version, a voice in his head says mockingly, because why the hell had he thought finally having this conversation would be some magical fix-all?

John seems to take Sherlock’s silence as some sort of tacit admission.

“Oh, you want the case file details,” John says flatly. “Alright. It began mainly as touching and progressed to oral. He didn’t actually penetrate me until I was fifteen. Initially he came to my room about once a week, but when I was sixteen my mum began taking sleeping pills and after that he came more often. He wasn’t often violent, except in the early days when I’d fight back more. He used to-”

“Stop it, John,” Sherlock says. His heart is racing, he can hear the blood pounding in his ears, and his whole body feels slightly numb.

“Why? You wanted me to talk,” John says in that same, horrible, lifeless tone. “He used to like to tie me up, and sometimes he’d gag me if he was worried I was making too much noise. Once he got a disposable camera and-”

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouts. “Please.”

John falls silent, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” he says.

“I wanted,” Sherlock says quietly, miserably, “I wanted to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” John says simply.

And he gets up and goes up to his bedroom before Sherlock can form another plea.

Sherlock sits for a moment.

Then he is sick, very neatly, in the kitchen sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all the chapters I've written so far but I'll try to update again soon. Please do let me know if you think I'm getting anything wrong.


End file.
